


Annus Mirablis

by foolishgames



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, Epistolary, F/M, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: December, 1705:Dear Miranda,I hope you can forgive me that I have left you alone, but the thought of living without him is more than I can bear. I have not your character and fortitude. By the time you return I will be on a ship taking me back to England. I have no doubt that Peter will continue to protect you and keep you in comfort, but if you should have need of me you may direct letters to Andrew Walter at the -- militia, who will be able to find me.If I can bring him back to you, I will.Yours,James





	1. Winter

###  Winter, 1705-1706

 

Dear Miranda,

I hope you can forgive me that I have left you alone, but the thought of living without him is more than I can bear. I have not your character and fortitude. By the time you return I will be on a ship taking me back to England. I have no doubt that Peter will continue to protect you and keep you in comfort, but if you should have need of me you may direct letters to Andrew Walter at the -- militia, who will be able to find me.

If I can bring him back to you, I will.

Yours,

James

 

My dear James,

I have taken up my pen every morning now for a week to answer your last and every day I have walked away unsatisfied and angry. I am not angry at you, though I thought I was. Your letter was very kind, my dear, you wrote not a single word of blame for my cowardice. You would never say it. I am angry at myself for it, angry that I, who flourished so long under Thomas’ indulgence and care, have allowed myself to be so easily set aside.

My hosts must have notified Peter of your departure, for he came yesterday and very solemnly told me that any attempt to contact Thomas might infuriate his father past the point of reason. He may be right, but James, I think you must try anyway. You are right. To leave him in that place, to let him think we have abandoned him, as I intended for us to do - it is unbearable. Tell me where you are, James, and I will come at once, and we will fetch Thomas and sail away to Xanadu together.

All my love (give some to T)

Miranda

 

Dear Miranda,

On no account are you to come here.

I do not mean to alarm you, but I suspect Peter’s words were more prescient than he knew. I have spent several days securing lodgings and a small income for myself - do not ask for specifics - and went this morning, Sunday, to the hospital. You know that on Sundays the doctors allow visitors, who may for a few pennies walk the halls of the wretched place and peer in at the unfortunates. This is meant to be educational and enlightening, but it is mostly an entertainment, I am afraid. The wealthy and poor alike jeer and stare at the lunatics, some of whom are chained or gagged. Or so I have been told, for as I walked in the door of Bethlem today, I was drawn to the side by one of the employees, who addressed me by name and said he had a message for me. I went eagerly, thinking that Thomas had, in all his usual charm, already befriended a useful person.

It was not so. Lord Hamilton appears to have been expecting me to make an attempt to reach Thomas, and made arrangements to have me dissuaded.

Pray do not be alarmed. The message was a short, sharp one for the first attempt; I have taken worse pain in scuffles aboard ship over rations and the hurt will not be long.

I must think further on how to proceed. I had no plan yet, not really, but I had hoped so much to see him today, to reassure him he was not forgotten, to reassure myself that he is well. I have been thinking all week of what I would say to him, entertaining fevered imaginings of knocking out his guards and fleeing with him under my jacket. Instead I am bruised, and my room is cold, and I have not seen Thomas, and Miranda is far away. 

You must stay far away, love, as much as I long to have you here. It seems this is more dangerous than I expected, although I should have known. You must be safe, and you are safest in France with Peter’s friends for the moment. I know this will infuriate you, but if you were seen in these parts I cannot vouch for the consequences. Please try to be patient and I will write you immediately I know anything further.

James

 

Dearest James

I wish I were there with you. I know the wisdom of staying away and I will, but thinking of you cold and alone, so near and yet a world apart from Thomas, cold and alone, is driving me mad. My hosts are kind, but I am so idle here - I have no spirit, of course, for fetes and sleigh rides and balls. But neither have I any useful work to occupy me. I take long walks and work on my French and write a hundred furious letters which I burn unsent. I want to rage and weep and storm into that awful place, but instead, here I sit.

I have been thinking about our problem. I have friends still in England, friends of a sort Alfred would never think to have subverted for considering them too far beneath him. Alfred has never considered how power is wielded by those who are not like him, that change, real change, can be effected by servants or women or people of principle and character who are willing to do difficult things. I will write to them and see if we can gather some support. 

I know you are frowning at me on reading that. The risk will be slight, I promise you, but I would take on a far greater peril for Thomas. I have no desire to maintain any standing in society, to keep my fortune or good name. I am done with court and Whitehall and London. They can go hang. Where shall we go, James, to build our new life? Back here to France, or shall we sail for the new world? Port Royal has some society, I hear, but some devilish part of me says Nassau. We will make our home there among the pirates and the smugglers and wicked lost men. Perhaps we will be a civilising influence, or instead we will go savage ourselves and take up thievery and drunkenness. And we shall be warm forever, and eat coconuts and fish every day.

I remain your own,

M

 

Dearest Miranda,

How are you so perfectly able to express my own thoughts? My first mad instinct, those weeks ago when you and Peter first broke the news to me, was to throw over everything and take you away to Nassau, to make Thomas’ dream a reality by raiding and burning English ships until they abandoned the West Indies entirely. I would have spent my revenge across the oceans, burned the world down for him.

I much prefer your plan, because in your plan we will have Thomas. Instead of razing the West Indies trade routes, I am loitering in awful bars near the docks to hear admiralty gossip. I mis like the involvement of Hennessy in our downfall, and the implications for Lord H’s influence over the Sea Lords. I narrowly avoided an impressment gang some days ago but I have met a number of men in a similar situation to me, disgraced and exiled from service. I haven't the manners, however, to make my way in other circles, so as much as I did frown at your letter-writing plan, I must concede its wisdom.

I have not returned to Bethlem since my first failed attempt. I walked past at the last visitor’s day, but I saw the ill-favoured fellow who delivered my beating, and went on before I caught his eye. I do not know if he is an employee of H, or a worker at the hospital who is doing his bidding, but he stands guard over the door, and has fists like hammers. I gave a few pennies to a lad who went in to look at the lunatics, and he came back with no good information. There were a dozen patients who might have been Thomas, apparently - some walking free in the gallery, others locked in rooms with small gaps in the door, other chained. Some had fair hair, and some were too dirty to tell. Some were tall, but many were shackled or hunched over. So you see I cannot even promise you that Thomas is there, much less that he is well or hale or awaiting us. I am infuriatingly helpless to reach him. You say that any person has the power to affect change in the world but today I cannot see it, I see only myself, quite powerless.

I have become maudlin. Tonight I go to meet a man behind a tavern for the promise of news which may not help, based on a rumour which may not have been true. I am tired, and I miss him.

Longingly,

J

 

Darling,

The helpless, useless two of us, so neatly crippled by so low and vile a man. If I see Alfred again I will spit in his eye. I wish I was there with you, so that I could cheer you with my company, but I am here, and I would be poor company in any case.

I have had less success with my letter writing than I hoped, but I persevere. Alfred is a powerful man, and powerful men make enemies, and I will find them out. To that end I am returning to England.

Do not shake your head at me! I am determined. I will not go to London, but I have funds enough for a small house in Dorset, near my sister. Alfred will know I have come, but I mean to live a quiet, unremarkable life to all appearances - and others will know I have come too, I hope. I would like to be nearby, as well, in case the best should happen, in case fortune smiles upon us - imagine, if you will, receiving a letter saying “I have him, we are free, all is well” and then having to wait three or four wretched days to be in his arms again. It is insupportable.

I will write again when I am settled. Be safe.

In hope,

M

  
  


Impossible woman,

I would implore you not to, scold you, go myself to prevent you - but you have gone already, I know, so I will set this letter aside and send it on when I hear from you. Is this what you felt when I left you in Paris to take on this mad endeavor? I am furious at you to endanger yourself like this, at myself for leaving you alone - and I am afraid, for the longer I am in London, the more I am aware that the politics and power games around Lord H and the question of Nassau are deeper and more perilous than I could have guessed. I imagined perhaps suborning a doctor and taking Thomas like a trinket from a vault, and instead I am hearing third-hand stories of unimaginably large bribes, threats against peers of the realm, and men simply vanishing in the night - all while the Earl of Ashbourne sits comfortable by the fire in his own home. And now you would wade into this morass, armed with your cutting quill and dangerous smile. Be wise as thou art cruel, love - be careful, will you?

In trepidation,

J

 

To my Fair Youth,

Dorset is not so dangerous as that, but I take your meaning. I will be careful. I have settled within a morning’s walk of my sister, who is married to a well-off gentleman of the area, in a cottage lately vacated by the death of its tenant, and have set about taking baskets to the poor of the area, embroidering cushions, and baking bread. Hermione sends my letters for me, though I do not believe she knew what she agreed to - hardly a day goes by without a dozen or so missives one way or the other.

I have had news of a man who has come to England from the Bahamas - a Mr Guthrie, with his young daughter. Perhaps you met them, in your time on the island? Mr Guthrie has close ties to the Virginia company, and trades out of New Providence with a writ of some sort. He may be a useful person for you to approach, as I understand he has good reason to be suspicious of Alfred’s attempts to quash piracy. 

I have heard, as well, of some rumours of insolvency on Alfred’s part. Rumour only, so far. So much of his fortune and name is tied up in the mercantilism through the West Indies, and it has been impacted by pirate activity far more than he might like to admit. It is no wonder that he could not abide the thought of showing any weakness by pardoning the pirates. I must assume, however, that despite his decisive action against us, he is in a precarious situation. Does that make him weak? One can hope, but it may also make him desperate. 

Unto the breach, darling -

M

 

My Dark Lady,

Today I have met with Mr Guthrie. I am grateful to you for steering me to him, as I suspect he will be invaluable. As you surmised, the majority of Mr Guthrie’s trade is in pirated goods: tobacco, sugar, and cotton, mainly, taken wholesale from any ship unfortunate enough to pass by New Providence. What you may not have known is that Mr Guthrie commands the loyalty of these fellows - and ensures the safe passage of his own ships - by providing select crews with information on the schedules and routes of particularly promising ‘prizes’, which Guthrie then sells on the open market. Ingenious. In the wake of the revolt of the pirates, Guthrie may be the only civilising influence on the island at all, and means to tighten that hold if he can.

Mr Guthrie himself is the sort of man I wish to punch. He has heard the rumours of our downfall, the story put about by Lord H., and made crude, winking reference to it multiple times during our discussion. I did not beat him, which I consider a triumph of my own spirit in the face of such provocation. Also, his daughter was present.

I did not discuss Thomas with him -  with such a man! As far as I can tell, he still believes the rumours, and understands me to be out for revenge against Lord H., which aligns rather well with his own purpose in London: to undercut any attempt to regain proprietary control of Nassau. He expects to be here some months, sorting out his business affairs and attempting to find a companion for his daughter. She is about twelve or thirteen, has lived all her life in Nassau, and is half-wild; prefers rum to wine or ale and curses like the worst sort of sailor. I like her better than her father. She has a kind of toughness about her.

I have made progress in Bethlem, as well, though not in a way I had hoped. I have met and, I think, befriended, the man who drives the church-cart to fetch the bodies of the poor unfortunates who die within its walls, as well as any in neighbourhoods nearby, for a fee. He is a surprisingly cheerful gentleman, and he says he has had few calls to Bethlem this past winter, and none for a tall, fair-haired man. I must suppose this is good news. He has friends within the wall of the hospital itself, he says, and will introduce me. (He knows me only as a sailor who bought him a drink one night, ‘an amiable chap’). I wish I had more to write of my progress, but even this has been such a grindingly slow pace - three months together, Thomas has been in that place, and I must beg for even scraps of information like this.

I will have him back. I will.

Yours,

J


	2. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The correspondents deal with hope, guilt and anger. There is discussion of sheep also.

###  Spring

 

Dearest James,

This morning I woke to the smell of soft, cleansing rains and damp earth. The fields around my little cottage are brilliant with wildflowers, apple trees with their bright lovely sprays of blossoms, little lambs frolicking and kicking with all that energy. I sat and had my morning tea with the windows thrown wide open and my hair down, and thought that next year, I should plant some lavender in the garden, and I was content.

In the next moment I was wracked with guilt and anger. It felt like a weakness - worse, a sin - to allow myself even a moment of happiness, to plan even so small a thing as some flowers, to think of a future. A future with no Thomas, no James! It was no serious plan, no defiant joy, simply a quiet moment when my belly was full and my feet were warm, and the room smelled pleasant, and I wanted more of it in the future. I have spent the rest of the day since that moment in a frenzy of self-castigation: shame on the soul, to falter.

I am being foolish.

Repentantly,

Miranda

 

My poor penitent,

_ Not to feel exasperated or defeated or despondent because your days are not packed with wise and moral actions. But to get back up when you fail, to celebrate behaving like a human—however imperfectly—and fully embrace the pursuit you have embarked on. _

There, love, if you will quote Aurelius at me to justify your mortification of the flesh, I will use the self-same to forgive you. It is no shameful thing to dream of peace and comfort. Many a morning I wish I were there with you, in your little cottage, far away from London. When I read your description I confess to my own wistful longing for frolicking lambs and apple blossoms and so forth.

Here is a future for you, dear one: a house in New Providence, perhaps just outside of Nassau. The island is a fair riot of green and growing things. We shall have a garden -  vegetables, probably, but flowers too, and tall trees. We shall have a library not as grand as the one we have left behind, and hardly any fortune to speak of, and a view of the bay. I will have a ship and a crew to make us some income, and Thomas will debate morality with pirates and write his memoirs, and you will draw civilised society to you like moths to a flame, and bring music and laughter and beauty to a wild place.

That is the future I dream of, my soul’s imaginary sight. You still have hope - we still have hope. I forbid you to torment yourself further with guilt for clinging to it.

All my love,

James.

 

James, dearest,

I wept over your letter. Afterwards I got up and continued a correspondence I have begun with the secretary of one of the members of the Commons, I visited with my sister, who has begun to show her - forgive me - delicate condition, and I cooked a rabbit in a very sorry-looking pie for my supper. But first I wept and missed you, and missed Thomas, and longed for the future where we will be all together again.

I have been thinking of that future as I make myself useful: Alfred’s alternate proposal for Nassau has been utterly stalled, from what I hear. He has garnered very little support from investors, and no significant allies within the Lords. This lends credence to my belief that he is approaching penury - or something like penury, for a man like Alfred. Certainly he will never be begging in the street, but I maintain that he has not the funds to properly retake New Providence and its satellites. It must be a matter of money, don’t you agree? The authority of the Lords Proprietor is very nearly absolute within their colonies, but not even our own sovereign can conjure fleets of ships or loyal men to crew them out of thin air. Capital must be had! And Alfred has none. He cannot get more funds until trade is unobstructed, but trade cannot resume until the pirates are dealt with, but he has not the funds to deal with the pirates - so here we are. Yet he could not unbend his pride enough to listen to Thomas, the stupid brute.

I will work on the other Lords P, I think, and continue to seek allies in the Commons. The Navy I must leave to you - tread carefully! If you are impressed to service again I will have to rescue both you and Thomas, which would be a complicated proposition.

Can we keep sheep in Nassau? Little ones?

Bucolically longing,

M

 

Miranda, dreaming of a farm,

We can have sheep if you like, though there’s little call for wool in the West Indies.

Am currently embroiled in a bit of intrigue with an anti-impressment group. I have little time to write, but I do promise not to get pressed.

I think you are right about Lord H. If I can do anything to speed his ruin, write at once and it shall be done.

In haste,

J

 

James, not at sea,

I have had news that Nassau has been sacked once again by the Spanish. The pirates were victorious in repelling them by all accounts, but the town itself was razed. At least they were kept from proceeding further inland, where I am told a small community of Puritans have made their quiet home, apparently undisturbed by the pirates. 

Such a peculiar thing, is it not? Pirates and Puritans living side-by-side, the one unmolested, even protected, by the other. In the absence of what we would understand as society another thing emerges, and takes a shape at once familiar and wholly alien. I wonder if the Puritans sell their crops to the pirates, if they buy tea and cotton stolen from passing ships. Are they intertwined, or do they pretend to keep entirely separate? Do sweet Puritan children escape their Mamas’ apron strings to go play with the cabin boys and whoresons on the beach? Do stern-faced pastors hand out pamphlets denouncing licentious behaviour in the local tavern?

These are the musings which keep me entertained, so that I do not go mad with worry. Thomas is kept in Hades, and you are playing Orpheus to his Eurydice. I live in fear that I will lose the both of you at the slightest misstep. We are becoming embroiled in impressment gangs, parliamentary scandals, the very future of the New World, and all I want is my husband back. I fear we are standing on the brink of something much larger than we meant to meddle in. 

(I cannot help but think that Thomas would dive in with relish, and meddle away with the best of intentions, and then I become angry with him all over again. Can he not see what he has risked? Is it fair of me to apportion him some sliver of the blame for his recklessness?)

Ah, ignore me. I have lost so much that I cling to what remains with all my strength - or I will, when I get my hands on it again.

In anticipation,

Miranda

 

 

 

Dear Miranda,

I want to soothe your fears and tell you that we are in no danger and entirely assured of success. But I will not lie to you, and you would not believe me if I did. You know as well as I that we have chosen a risky course. The danger, as you have so wisely reminded me, is very real.

Do you think Thomas would meddle? Thomas is a philosopher at heart, I think. Perhaps this disaster will have mellowed his best intentions, as it has so decidedly altered mine. Perhaps in future he will be cautious to trust, and slow to act. I think that would grieve me. His nature is so open and kind.

May I confess something? It has taken mere months for my own inclinations to dramatically reverse. I once recently believed, fervently, in Thomas’ plan for the pirates’ pardons - that we could bring them under our wing and restore them to decency and civility. That such a thing was not only possible, it was desirable, and I was willing to fight for it.

These days, I find myself more inclined to take up piracy myself, and I would not take a pardon if it was offered. My rage at the injustice of it all - that Thomas could be so cruelly taken, that you and I so easily cast into penury and disgrace. That something I knew to be so good, unequivocally, as the love we shared, could be used in such a black and treacherous way - it is unforgivable. We did not deserve this, Miranda. Thomas did not deserve this. And even if the civilised world would take us back - the tidy, chastened shells of us, carved out of all that low and base perversion they rejected - they can go hang, for I do not want them. Never again.

Forgive me, love. I have had little comfort these past weeks but your letters, and I am weary and lonely. Last night I dreamed of taking tea with Admiral Hennessy, the week I was promoted to Lieutenant, and how proud he was of me. How quickly that turned to disgust. He called me his son, once - did he ever love me, or was I nothing more than a sort of clever pet, to display the benefits of a Naval education? Does it matter if he did?

This letter is a sorry thing. Imagine it soggy with my regret.

Despondently yours,

James

 

Darling,

How I wish I was there with you, or you here with me, so we could whisper these dark and grieving thoughts to one another in the nighttime, and leave them there, rather than stark on paper. It is curative to say it aloud, is it not? I wish Alfred Hamilton dead. I would like to wield the blade myself. I hate all of those fools, those clowns, those ridiculous sycophants who came to our salons and spoke of justice and mercy and the dignity of man, and spat in our faces when the time came to act. Some days, like you, I feel myself consumed by it, eaten up with rage, and I have no where to expend it. How are we to bear it? 

All the pleasant mornings in my cottage, and your dear letters, and visits with my sister - even the thought of having Thomas back and planning our future, all of it is made bitter by the injustice that has been done. Our past and our present have both been poisoned by this foulness. Will our future be? Once we have succeeded, and taken Thomas and gone somewhere away, will the rage subside? Will we be allowed to be happy again, one day, without wanting to scream at the sky?

Most troubling - if we cannot learn to be happy again in the future, what point is there to fighting at all?

In solidarity and hope,

Miranda

 

Best of all Mirandas,

You shame me. To think of happiness in the future, of a future where we are free of not only those people who have hurt us but the hurt itself? I cannot see so far. The horizon is a dim haze and the water is still; I am becalmed here in my misery.

My business in London has stalled for the moment. A weekend in the country will restore my spirits, wouldn’t you agree? Look for me this Friday, in the evening. I need a moment, a day, a little while with you: to be gentle and quiet and to remember what it is all in service of.

Till I see you,

James.


	3. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollections of happier days, naughty letters, and a realisation

### Summer

Dearest,

I have gotten late and rather damp back to London, having nearly missed the last stagecoach. I cannot regret lingering in your bed as I did, only that I could not stay longer. I wish it were not necessary for us to be separated like this. Aside from your own, very evident charms as a companion - shall I enumerate them? - I feel myself becoming clearer-headed when I am with you. In London, embroiled in intrigue and in the company of violent men and dark deeds, it is so easy to succumb to melancholy. I feel as if I am going mad, sometimes.

And then there is Miranda, and the world seems well to me. Alone I am adrift. Thank God for you!

London is disappointingly unaffected by my renewed sense of purpose: the Thames is more sluggish and stinking, the streets more littered, the miscreants fouler. My friend the church-cart driver has invited me to drink with him again, and since he has many friends among the apothecaries and charitable institutions of the neighbourhood I must oblige him. He is at least unobjectionable company, I must say, a pleasant man.

I think your plan to write to Mr Guthrie is a good one. He has been these six weeks in Liverpool with his daughter, and if my impressions are correct, he thinks the child a nitwit and has no patience for her. He is wrong - the girl is sharp as a tack. You will have better luck befriending him than me, I think, since he has a smuggler’s deep suspicion of the Navy.  I suspect that Mr Guthrie will become essential to our plans. When we take Thomas from the hospital, we will have to get him out of the country very quickly and quietly, and a man like Guthrie will have a dozen ways to make it happen.

It feels strange to thank you for having me to visit this past weekend, as if you have loaned me a handkerchief or complimented my coat. But I thank you anyway, and trust that you know the depths of my gratitude.

Missing you already,

James

 

Dear James,

I am glad you stayed a little while later, as well. To have woken and found you gone, or dressed and ready to go, and not be able to have you at least once more, would have been a sincere disappointment.

I know that you are blushing, love. I know you wish I would not say such improper things, and certainly not put them in a letter - shall we pretend then that you came to my house for the weekend and we read books and drank tea and kept all of our clothes on, at all times? You had no such restraint when you arrived to my door. I half-thought you intended to devour me whole when you carried me off to bed. Do you think I am a hoyden, to have missed it so? It seems to me longer than mere months since I have been touched so, my skin was so hungry for it. I have missed the companionship and warmth, the love and laughter and all of it - but oh, I have missed the sex too, and way your skin turns pink under the freckles, and your strong hands and clever mouth and beautiful cock. I have also decided that I like your beard, as a well-kept beard is not so scratchy as an untended shave, only pleasantly tickly, and it makes you look rather dashing and rakish. When we go to Nassau you will look a proper pirate.

You have quite ruined me for the week, I am afraid - my letters are all at sixes and sevens, and I have not been to see Hermione since you left me. I have been lazing about the house dreaming and content, building our future home in my mind and thinking of things to tell Thomas. Perhaps it is the heat - I become quite useless in the heat. In Nassau you will have to carry me in a sedan chair everywhere and have me fanned with palm leaves.

I have crossed a bit out there, urging you to come again, for my own ends - but I retract it entirely. As much as I would love to trap you in my bed until we are both wrung-out and useless, there are greater things in play than my loneliness. Come only if you are sure you can be spared from our endeavor, or if you are needful of a rest, and I will store up all my lusts and unleash them on you when we are free. (You are blushing again.)

Yours,

Miranda.

PS Do enumerate my charms, you know it thrills me - MH

 

Dear Miranda,

As for your charms, you are far too clever not to be aware of them, and I know you have mirrors in your house. You know that you are beautiful, and cleverer than most of the men I know, and have an unparalleled understanding of the world. You are kind-hearted and generous, charming and gracious, a hostess and scholar, a loving and devoted wife, and of course: a lover of the highest order.

The day you seduced me in the carriage, you brazen, I was overcome - no woman of my experience could compare. I hardly knew where to put my hands, or how to speak, or what you meant by anything. You had to direct me as to what you liked, do you recall? Though I flatter myself that I learned quickly enough - you had no protests, certainly. But I am older now (he says, stroking his beard) and I know you. Petted like a cat, worshipped like a queen - you are a hedonist, madam, of the truest kind. Should I still blush at your lusts? I do, I confess it, but one may blush at a compliment without disliking it in the slightest. You would hardly be Miranda if you did not seek your pleasure, and it is no hardship to serve you in that regard, I promise you.

Nevertheless, I must quash your plan for sedan chairs and palm trees at the outset. You will have to make do with a gig and parasol.

A matter of business: I have this week been introduced to a man who is an occasional attendant at Bethlem. He is studying with the College of Apothecaries and expects to take his exams in the next months, and thereafter to take a position in the hospital. He loiters at the edge of crowds, that I have seen, and does not appear to have many friends, only acquaintances who struggle to remember his name. It is possible, I suppose, that he is a perfectly decent sort, and I will be ashamed later of how I have been following him and digging into his affairs to find a point of weakness to exploit. But then I daily hope to find evidence of him being very bad indeed, so that I may blackmail him with a clear conscience.

What a dirty business. I am sorry to be such a man.

James.

 

My dear,

When we have Thomas back, we will take great delight in showing him these letters, I think - he will tickled by the curious subject matter. All our dark and desperate planning, set alongside our jokes and affection and occasional smuttiness. I will take some time and come up with some proper filth to write for you, so I can think of you reading it alone in your room and how it may affect you, and to think of Thomas reading it later, thinking of you alone in your room and me writing it.

I’m not sure you ever knew, but I kept Thomas rather intimately apprised of our affair. He came home from a meeting that first evening and knew at once what had happened, just from my expression. I went to his room that night and told him every detail. He knew of my past lovers of course, but he had never looked at any of them quite like you and I meant to tease him a little with it. I had got as far as -  oh, Smith Street, I suppose, when we realised that the curtains were open and I had put my head out to tell the driver to continue on, and felt you lifting up my skirt from behind - when T became very agitated and looked rather aggrieved. He looked as though he didn’t know whether to weep or to embrace me. I stopped my tale, and apologised, but he went very red and begged me to continue, so I took him into my arms and let him hide his face while I told him the whole of it. He was so _greatly_ affected by it, James. I am sure you can guess what I mean by that.

Was he in love with you already, then? He found you so compelling from the first. He had been terribly nervous about his Naval liaison - the wrong fellow could have scuttled the project entirely, you see, but after one meeting with you he could speak of nothing else. The lieutenant, he said, so well-spoken and thoughtful and erudite! My liaison, he said (you were ‘mine’ from the beginning, you see) has such a refreshing point of view of the world, I could not get half so much done with another man. I depend so entirely on James, he told me. The project would be in ruins without him.

And I could no more deny him the pleasure of your arms than he could deny me the same - and you were so obliging to us two deviants and our lusts, darling. It was a happy time. I wish we could have gone to Nassau and been away from England and free. I still wish it! And so we shall. We shall be happy again, and I will show Thomas these letters and whisper in his ear of the illicit visits you have paid me in my little country cottage until he flees to your bed to escape me. You are such a martyr to us!

Miranda

PS I have heard back from Mr Guthrie. There is something in his writing which suggests he expects my slavish gratitude for his attention and society. Though I have never met the man, I cannot escape the sensation that he is looking at my breasts - not lustfully, but simply because he can. I feel for his poor daughter - I have written a letter for her which I will enclose in my reply, for I understand she has no women in her life now her mother has passed. MH.

 

Dear Miranda,

Your letter paints me as something of a Saint Sebastian, tied to a tree and pinned with the arrows of your - forgive me, I am laughing too hard to write without making blots. I have had a productive week in pursuing our joint goal and your letter capped it off, so I am in excellent humour tonight. I will take your letter to bed with me and read it with _great_ attention. I am sure that _you_ can guess what I mean by that. And Thomas, reading this next year - you may come and find me at any time, my love, to oblige you.

I regret that I cannot contribute any more filth to your collection - I began a letter more explicit than this one and could not finish it. I will keep any and all of your own smut for future readings. Perhaps you could write a book?

The apoth. I have been investigating (Mr Rush) has turned out not to be any kind of villain, unfortunately, only a shy, rather awkward man who is ill-equipped to make friends. However a little kindness and a little ale sufficed to make him more open and pliable, and he willingly told me of his work in Bethlem, and his sadness at the number of people who are there for no crime or madness at all, only the disapprobation of their families. Perhaps it will not be necessary to resort to blackmail with him after all? I will be cautious, however, and not mention Thomas to him until I am more sure of his sympathy. But it is a hopeful thing, and I am beginning to see a way forward.

I am pleased that your assessment of Guthrie is equal to my own - useful the man may be, but accustomed to ruling Nassau like a kingdom, and profoundly untrustworthy. His reach in London is fairly limited, and I believe he would not be here at all if it were not necessary to conduct some certain business in person. (I mean bribes, of course.) Let me know how you get on. I will not tell you not to take needless risks, because experience has shown that you are far better at judging these things than I.

To that end I must ask your advice - I think it will be best if Lord H is well distracted when we make our move. I have been meaning to write to Peter Ashe and ask his assistance, but something has stayed my hand. I have not seen him since I left you with his friends in Paris, eight months ago. He has been seen around Whitehall, I believe -  has he suffered no ill-effect from being publicly aligned to our cause? He made several persuasive speeches and wrote reams of letters in support of Thomas’ plan. The three of us were shuffled very hastily aside and I had assumed that Peter’s interests were affected as well, but I cannot currently see any detriment to him. Have you heard from Peter? What are your thoughts?

James

 

Dear James,

I have written twice to Peter in the last few months and had no reply. It is very curious! As soon as I got your letter I sent notes to some contacts I have gotten at Whitehall. If Peter has not suffered any loss of status from his association  well, I do not like implications. He is connected and protected enough he could make trouble for Alfred. If Alfred is so wholly unconcerned by the prospect, it is not out of carelessness. He is not the sort of man to leave a loose end about. Perhaps he is blackmailing or threatening Peter? The other possibility is so awful I can hardly bear to think it. Peter was such a friend, such a true friend. And while I haven’t told him the whole of our plans in my letters to him, I have hinted at enough for a man as clever as Peter to understand our aims.

I will write again as soon as I hear more. Tread carefully in the meantime.

Miranda.


	4. Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best-laid plans.

###  Autumn

 

Dear James,

The news is not good. I have heard from an old friend whose husband is working on some matters with Alfred, and she tells me that Peter has been seen in Alfred’s company more than once in the past weeks. There is talk, she says, of Peter making his way to the colonies under Alfred’s auspices with a ship and soldiers, to establish a stronger presence on the American continent. There is talk of the Governor of the Carolinas being weak, of replacing him, and Peter’s name is being raised.

Not only has Peter suffered no ill-effects from his association with us, he has risen from our ruin stronger. What has he done to earn such favour? I can think of only one possibility, James - he was complicit in our ruin. Alfred could not have approached the Navy with mere hearsay and speculation, not when you were so admired and depended upon by your superiors. He must have had a witness. 

Do you recall my birthday party? You and Thomas snuck off to the library during the evening, and Peter was gone for a time at about the same hour. I had thought he must be ill, because he was pale when he returned, and left soon after, but what if he came upon you together without you knowing?

I am all confusion. Peter has had all the appearance of friendliness and support. He was so grieved when Thomas was taken away, and so particular about providing every comfort to me in my exile. Can he have truly been so faithless? I do not know what to think or how to proceed. I am suddenly anxious in my little house here, as he may turn up unexpectedly, despite all his months of silence.

If Peter has told Alfred of our plans, even indirectly, all we have worked for may be at risk. What are we to do?

Yours,

Miranda

 

Miranda,

God, that is bad news. He and Thomas were friends for years, weren’t they? Were they not at university together? To so callously consign such a friend to such a place, you to penury, me to the gallows for all he knew - for what? To be a tin god in the New World?

I cannot write. I keep having to leap to my feet and pace my room in agitation. Peter, our only friend! I will wring his damn neck.

I cannot tell at present if he is a threat to our plans. How specific were you in your letters to him? Did you mention me? You said he never replied, but does that mean he paid them no mind?

It is too much, I must -

I have gone for a walk to clear my head and collect my thoughts, and now it is late and my head is still muddled. Should I continue with the plan I have come up with? I have made so many inroads, so many valuable connections. A picture was becoming clear to me, a way forward - I cannot think of leaving Thomas in that place a minute longer than I must, let alone the months it would taken us to regroup. Already it has been nearly a year. A year! Does he think we have abandoned him? Has he resigned himself to such a fate?

Appalled,

J

 

James,

We will not be denied. We will have him back. If the plan is as you suggested when you visited, then we should proceed. I will not let Peter Ashe keep him any longer from us.

I am making preparations to leave my house here and join you in London. Richard Guthrie has returned there, and one of his ships leaves for the Bahamas at the end of November. I intend for all of us to be aboard, and I can work to this end better if I am there. We will need capital, as well, and I can sell the things I took from Alfred’s house far more easily in London than in Dorset.

I should have taken more when we fled, should I not? I should have stripped the house of every scrap of silk and silver, every trinket and bauble melted down for scrap. Instead I have my jewels and Thomas’s, a handful of books which I will keep, and little else of value aside from our portrait. What an odd shape our new lives will be.

There is much to do, suddenly. I will see you very soon.

Miranda.

 

Miranda,

I do not know what you are imagining my accommodations to be, but I must tell you there is no place for you here. I do not mean this as a jibe at your character, dearest - I mean that there is, quite literally, no space. My bed is akin to a shipboard cot, and my feet hang off the end. I cannot stand without hitting my head on the sloped ceiling. My trunk does double duty as a desk, and I write while sat on the end of my bed for a chair - it is even more ungraceful than I am sure you are picturing. Come to London by all means, but we must see about better lodgings for you than this unfortunate dockside cupboard.

If I did not fear the attention it would bring and the risk of it, I would return to your former house tonight and rob it for every penny of value. Imagine that, if you will - sailing into a nest of pirates loaded down with a townhouse worth of silk and books and gilded candlesticks. How they would welcome us! We would be robbed blind within the hour and begin our new lives as penniless vagrants immediately.

I have begun the first stage of our plan, one which is rather delicate - I have met with Mr Rush the apothecary and Mr Gordon the church-cart driver and, after some dancing around the subject, intimated to them that there is a person in Bethlem I am particularly connected to. Mr Rush was immediately sympathetic and concerned, while Mr Walter was more difficult to read. I implied to them that I had been searching for a way to contact Thomas - making no mention of any further plan at this stage. Mr Rush offered immediately to take a letter to Thomas. I could have hugged the man. He has such an off-putting nervous manner but he is all kindness when you know him.

Mr Gordon was more subdued, and asked me later if I had been pursuing this end all our acquaintance. I did not like to lie to him, but I found it difficult to answer. He seemed to take the meaning in any case. I believe I have injured his pride, which I am sorry to do.

I must write a note to Thomas for Mr Rush to deliver when he is next at the hospital. What am I to say? It cannot be long, and I think it should not have any hint of our plans in case it is intercepted. But how am I to put months of our shared grief onto a sheet of paper? How to assure him he is remembered, longed-for, desperately missed? What can I say to him that will begin to express how these past months have been for us, let alone touch his own suffering? Words cannot do it, but they must be enough.

In expectation,

James

 

My dear James,

This is the best news I could have hoped for in the circumstances. You will write my own sentiments to Thomas, of course - I almost wrote “pass on my regards” as if you were visiting a schoolfriend for tea rather than trying to convey the immensity of my feelings to my absent husband after a long separation. Words cannot convey, as well you know, but I trust you will do credit to our feelings regardless, and soon - soon! We will not need ink and paper to do the job which lips and hands and loving should.

My friends in London have sent more good news: Peter’s planned journey to the Bahamas as Alfred’s emissary, slated for the end of the year, has been postponed, perhaps for months. Funds are tight. I have dropped hints to some of Alfred’s competitors, both in trade and in parliament, who may be in a position to exploit such a weakness. Confusion to our enemies, my dear.

I must reassure you that I have no intention of trying to cram myself into your travelling trunk to sleep. My solution, dearest, is very simple: Mr Guthrie needs a companion for Eleanor, here in London and once she is returned to Nassau. I have need of Mr Guthrie. I have written to suggest an arrangement to him and he has agreed, and I will be at his house by the end of the week. I will be able to see you very often from there, and assist with any schemes. 

Mr Guthrie is of course aware of our association, and is amenable to any plan which will cast Alfred Hamilton’s interests into disarray. From within his own household I will be able to work on him regarding our passage - all three of us - to Nassau. We have a month and a half before his ship leaves. The time is so close. To think that within two months we will all be together again, safe and far away from here. This past year has been so very long, but this next little season might be longer still to us, with our goal so close.

You may write back to me at Mr Guthrie’s house in London - or perhaps I will see you sooner than that?

Miranda

 

Dearest,

The attached was slipped under the bedroom door sometime during the night - I stepped on it when I left you this morning, trying not to wake you. Miss Guthrie expresses herself very directly for a girl her age, though I am sorry to hear our nocturnal activities have been troubling her. Perhaps a word in her ear?

I am going to meet Mr Rush today. He may have news. I have some other errands that will keep me out late, so I will return to my lodgings and see you tomorrow.

J

 

_ A note scribbled on a torn-out bookplate: _

To Missus H and Friend,

You sound as if you are being murdered. Please keep the noise DOWN after midnight at least.

E.G.

 

James,

Eleanor and I have had a very instructive discussion on Things That Are Polite To Mention About Houseguests as well as When To Hold Valuable Information In Reserve. She has keen instincts for the second topic, at least, and tried to blackmail me re my illicit lover an hour later, only half-joking. What an excellent child. The voyage to Nassau will not be dull!

I have spoken further to Mr G regarding said voyage. We have been promised a cabin - the fare would have entirely consumed our savings, but I am in G’s employ and he means to speak with you regarding working for your passage. Please come by tomorrow morning to see him, and to bring any news of Thomas you have had from your friend.

M

 

Darling,

I am sorry I could not stay longer after my meeting with Guthrie. I did not mean it to go so late, and there is so much to arrange, although I wanted very badly to speak with you for much longer. Mr Guthrie and I have discussed the terms under which we sail for Nassau. He seemed unsurprised at my mention that a third person would seek to join us. I must remind myself that though he is a little, nasty man, he is not stupid. Negotiations are continuing on that front, but I am confident all will be well.

As I said, Mr Rush has seen Thomas, has spoken with him and passed on our letter to him. They had little time and no privacy for a long conversation, but he said that Thomas was of sound mind despite his poor treatment, though he has a rattling cough and looks ill-fed. He told me a little of the conditions prisoners are kept in, but reassured me that Thomas has a room of his own, and a mattress, and is rarely chained. He seemed to think this would be a comfort to me, and was sorry afterwards to have been so blunt. He will try to see Thomas again when he goes next week, though I have urged him to draw as little attention as possible. It will not do to have eyes on any peculiar behaviour now. Otherwise I would be loading poor Mr Rush down with so many letters and books to deliver he would have no time for his doctoring. But perhaps Thomas will have a little message for us - in any case, he knows now that he is not forgotten, and that we think of him often, and I hope he can guess that we are coming for him.

It will not be long now, love. I am counting down the days.

J

 

James,

Miss Guthrie, nosy child that she is, has been rifling in her father’s things, and has brought me news of a most alarming nature.

James, tell me you are not intending on accepting this deal of Guthrie’s. You would not do that to us. We can find other passage to Nassau - Hell, passage to anywhere! There is no need for such rashness. I forbid this.

Come to see me at once, and we will find another way. We have time.

M

 

Miranda, treasure of all the seas,

I have accepted the deal. The thing is done. I am sorry I cannot be there with you, but last-minute preparations - no. I am a coward, and if I were with you, I would agree to anything, and I must see this through. I know that Guthrie is awful; and I know that we need him, and I will buy his cooperation at whatever price it takes.

Tomorrow evening Mr Rush will declare an outbreak of smallpox at Bethlem. The doctors and surgeons above him will overrule him eventually, but it will be enough for several days quarantine of the hospital, preventing any outside investigation in that time. The lone ‘victim’ will be taken away by Mr Gordon for a pauper’s funeral - in reality to the docks, to the waiting  _ Sara Smith _ , due to depart with the dawn, bound for Nassau. The whole thing will be over and done in a matter of hours, and the ship will be far away before Alfred Hamilton or Peter Ashe hear a word. There will be a party at the Hamilton estate in the North that night, I hear. Nobody will be there to stop us.

It is done. I am not sorry but I do regret. Forgive me once again; I will see you tomorrow night.

With love,

James


	5. December 1706

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last letter of the year.

December, 1706

Thomas, beloved,

Tonight all our plans have come to completion. You are free, and by dawn you will be sailing far away from your father’s reach.

I will not be with you.

Some foolish slip on my part, forgetting that you would be drug-affected for hours after being brought from the hospital. I wanted so badly to tell you this myself, to kiss you and hold you and assure you and myself of the impermanence of our separation. I wanted to tell you all of the plans we have made in this bleakest year.

Instead you are sleeping, looking like a dead man - they brought you from the asylum in a pine box - and I have an hour or less to put my thoughts on paper before I must be off this ship. Your passage to the West Indies, and a dozen other small favours, are courtesy of a  Mr Richard Guthrie. The price he has exacted is my service, and that term begins immediately. The _Sara Smith_ will take you and Miranda to Nassau, and I will remain here for a time with Mr Guthrie, and take captaincy of one of his ships, to carry out his business wherever he might have need. This indenture is to be not less than one year, or until I have earned his interests a certain amount through my service.

I thought it a disagreeable solution, though better than some we had considered - but I have changed my mind. It is intolerable. This past year without you has been a torment, utter despair - another might well do me in entirely. Miranda raged at me when she found out. She was right to rage, this is a terrible plan.

Why will you not wake? Just for a moment? I don’t know I can go another interminable god-damned _year_ without hearing your voice or seeing you smile. There isn’t paper enough in all of England for me to express it in writing, not even I had a thousand years to write - and already I can see the horizon paling, the dawn is coming to take you away from me again.

You will be with Miranda at least, you two of my dearest loves, safe and far away from this wretched place. I will come to you as soon as I may.

With every breath of love in me,

James.

**Author's Note:**

> The title means "Year of Wonders", used to refer to a period of great upheaval, change or progress.


End file.
